Private Conversation
by nowforruin
Summary: Emma has had a long day, and all she wants to do is have a few drinks with her friend at their local dive. But Killian doesn't seem to have much respect for a private conversation.


Yep, another Tumblr request. This is from a week or two ago (I think) but I forgot to post here for you lovelies not on Tumblr. This is the last one for the day, promise! I'm sure you're tired of getting the emails saying I've put up yet another one shot.

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"It's been a day," Emma says in greeting, flopping into the booth Elsa's been keeping for them in their favorite dive bar. She's grateful to have a friend like her, when a simple _this is a day only tequila can fix_ text is met with _I'll meet you there._

Elsa lifts an eyebrow, pushing the already ordered tequila shot across the table before lifting her own. "Does it have something to do with why you're dripping all over the bar?"

"Ugh, yes." Emma throws back the shot, wincing at the burn of the cheap liquor. One of these days they'll find a more high-class establishment (it's a lie, this is pretty much the only option in Storybrooke). She pushes her fingers through her soaked hair, watching in dismay as it drips onto her leather jacket with a shiver. "The Bug and I are having a disagreement again. He won this time."

"She." Emma whips her head (soaked hair smacking her in the face) to glare at the source of the comment, a man slouched in the booth across from them. From the looks of him, he's been having his own pity-party, the table cluttered with empty glasses and a lazy leer on his lips as he watches her, his eyes lingering on her damp shirt.

He's also wearing leather pants and, unless she is very much mistaken, guyliner.

She's too irritated to dignify him with a response and turns back to Elsa. "I know I should have it taken in, but I'm sort of broke right now, so I walked. And it's raining."

" _She_ is how one refers to vessels. Ships, cars, it's all the same. _She_." He's trying to interfere in their conversation again, and Emma is having none of it. She's soaked and she's tired and she's stressed out and who the hell does this guy think he is?

"Hey, Elsa, remember that time we were having our own, private conversation and some sad Jack Sparrow wannabe _wasn't_ offering up an opinion no one cares about?" Emma's eyes are on his, deep green and spitting with fire. She's surprised by the clarity in his expression, the deep cerulean of his eyes as he meets her head on, but she doesn't let it show.

"I do seem to remember that, yep." Emma doesn't have to look at her friend to know the somewhat amused somewhat worried smile she's wearing. Neither of them do particularly well with assholes in bars, but Emma is the one who's thrown a punch before – and she's _really_ not in the mood for it today.

Emma turns back to Elsa, cursing under her breath. "What an asshole."

"He's coming over here," Elsa mutters into her drink, her eyes darting toward the figure that, sure enough, is now standing beside Emma.

"Perhaps if you were a more able captain, you wouldn't find yourself looking the part of something the cat dragged in."

"Why do you give a shit? Need tips on waterproof eyeliner? Yours seems to be running." She smiles sweetly up at him, smudged eyeliner and messy black hair and sinfully curved lips.

"Should you like to accompany me home and provide a proper tutorial, I would not object."

"Like hell I'm going anywhere with you. Go back to whatever you were doing before you bothered us."

"As you wish." He offers up a taunting grin, and though he goes back to his own table, Emma can feel his eyes on her right up until her and Elsa stumble out into the rain.

But it's not the last of him.

She's supposed to be meeting Elsa for drinks, but her friend is running late ( _sorry, my sister is having a wedding crisis!)_ so she grabs a seat at the bar, her night uncertain. Knowing how Anna can be, there's a chance Emma's on her own tonight.

Which is of course why tonight, of all nights, _he's_ sitting at the bar. "'Ello, love," he greets her as soon as he spots her, grinning in spite of her rolled eyes. "Come back for a bit more?"

"I'm always here. You're never here. It's my place. Go _away_."

"You Americans lack all manners."

"You Brits are a snobby lot," she snaps back, a poor imitation of his accent spilling form her lips before she can stop herself.

He only grins. "Careful, lass. Wouldn't want you to be accusing an Irishman of being English."

"Whatever. You and your oh-so-charming accent can go to hell."

"So you find me charming?"

"I find you _irritating_."

"And yet, here we still are."

She sighs, nodding her thanks at the bartender and grabbing her beer. She picks it up, drinking half of it down before turning back to him. "What do you want?"

"Is it so odd to you that a handsome devil like myself might fancy a conversation with a beautiful lass such as yourself?" His smirk is back, eyes bright as he watches her. His tongue slips out between his lips, licking them in a just-barely there fashion that makes a shiver run down her spine in spite of herself.

"You want to _talk_ to me?" she asks doubtfully, glancing back at the bar and her drink.

He shrugs. "Aye, for a bit. Perhaps we could pursue more _enjoyable_ activities at a later date, should you fancy it."

"You know this is Maine and not some Dickensian novel, right?"

"Dickensian you say?" She can tell by his grin that he knows _exactly_ what the term means, but he's having too much fun leering at her, and she hates him a little for it, but she's starting to find a certain charm in it.

But there's no way she's letting him know. So her eyes narrow, and she answers with a glare, "Dickens. The novelist. Though I don't suppose you know anything about classic literature."

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…something like that, aye?"

"That's a quote everyone knows."

"Shall I recite you quotes from novels all night long? I admit, there are more exciting ways to pass the time, but if you insist."

"You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps. I'm also Killian Jones." He grins, offering her his hand. She takes it reluctantly, and she wishes she hadn't, because he uses the opportunity to brush a kiss against her skin and she's shivering all over again.

"Emma Swan," she manages to get out, her voice surprisingly level. "Listen, I'm waiting for my friend, so don't think we'll be making a night of this."

His smirk broadens. "Ah, so you've considered the possibility of making a night of it. Excellent news."

"No way in hell."

He nods, but she sees the mischief in his eyes, the way the bottomless blue dances like the ocean on a fine summer day.

She blames those eyes for where the night takes them – his eyes, her poor choices, Elsa's sister and her dress emergency, they all lead to Emma pressed against the wall just inside his apartment, his lips on hers and her hands tugging his jacket off his shoulders even as he's struggling to get her top off.

"Are you some sort of serial killer?" she demands as her head falls back against the wall, her eyes finally opening to the impeccably neat apartment.

"Again with the accusations." He drags his mouth away from her skin, his palms on either side of her, braced against the wall. "I enjoy a clean home, Swan." He bends his lips to her neck, his teeth dragging over the sensitive skin. "Shall we continue to debate the merits of good housekeeping?"

She doesn't get a chance to answer, because his lips are back on hers, and they're moving across the living room. He loses patience quickly, his hands reaching for her thighs, lifting her into his arms and anchoring her to his hips as he moves.

There isn't much talking the rest of the night, whatever words spoken between them lost in gasps and sighs, muttered mumblings against each other's skin and lips. But Emma is sure of one thing as she falls asleep in his bed, thoroughly sated – there are plenty more words to come.


End file.
